


The Maturation of Mycroft Holmes

by OssaCordis



Series: The Holmes Family Chronicle [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Backstory, Childhood, Dysfunctional Family, Family, Gen, Kid Fic, Minor Character Death, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 15:06:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OssaCordis/pseuds/OssaCordis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>January 1986: parents, pirates, and several different ways of coping with grief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Maturation of Mycroft Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> The modern incarnations of Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC. The plot of this story and all other characters belong to me.

 

 

 

 

“Maturity is a high price to pay for growing up.” – Tom Stoppard

 

* * *

 

**January 1986**      

             

The snow that fell after Christmas is still on the ground, but in the weeks since, it has become grey and dirty with age. Mycroft watches a single Friesian cow pick her way across a muddy field from his train compartment, and leans his forehead against the cool window for a moment. He wonders when the sun will come back, and then if it is treasonous to dislike English weather so much.

It only takes a couple of hours to travel from Eton to home, but Mycroft is startled into wakefulness as the train pulls into the familiar old station. He didn’t mean to doze off, but something about the motion of the train and the cool glass on his forehead lulled him to sleep. He drowsily stretches, pulls his overnight bag down from the storage rack, and steps onto the platform. Even though he knows there will be no one there to meet him, he looks around for a familiar face before he shuffles into the car park. An elderly black Maybach is waiting for him, looking more like a relic of a forgotten age than anything else. Mycroft taps on the driver’s side window, and sees someone moving from behind the tinted windows.

“Afternoon, Gregor,” Mycroft says as the window is manually rolled down and the driver shuffles to stow his newspaper.

“Young Mr. Holmes! I apologize, I didn’t see you. Let me open the door for you.” The older man is flustered, caught off guard by the sudden appearance of his charge. He is relieved to have not been caught smoking in the car again, though. Mycroft can tell by the slight tremor in his right hand and the nicotine stains in his white moustache.

“Don’t bother,” Mycroft replies, reaching for the door handle and settling into his usual seat behind the driver.

Gregor turns the key and the engine comes to life with a sputtering cough. Mycroft suppresses a sigh; everything at home seems to be grey and wheezing and old. Genteel poverty, he likes to call it. The last days of the empire, for the Holmes family, anyhow. He wonders what, if anything, he can do to reverse this trend of decay. It’s becoming worse all the time.

Gregor interrupts his thoughts. “Your mum will be happy to have you back. And your gran, too, I imagine.”

“Yes,” Mycroft says in monotone.

“It’s been a difficult few weeks, since you left to go back to Eton,” Gregor says chattily. As if this was a casual conversation. It’s almost vulgar, Mycroft thinks.

“Mmm,” he offers reluctantly, because he knows he is expected to provide some sort of response.

“Just the other day, your mum –”

“Gregor, please be quiet,” Mycroft says, a little more harshly than he intended.

“Right,” Gregor says. He’s offended now, after he was just trying to be polite, and Mycroft has ruined the moment. “I’m sorry,” Gregor says rather stiffly.

“No, I’m sorry. Truly,” Mycroft says. “I just have a lot of things on my mind right now, and I wasn’t in the mood for conversation.”

This seems to placate Gregor. “Not a problem, Mr. Holmes. I completely understand.”

The remainder of the ride is in silence. The curving line of smooth-leaved elms along the driveway ( _Ulmus minor_ subsp _. minor_ , he thinks to himself, one of England’s last stands against Dutch elm disease) reminds Mycroft of just how much he dislikes the countryside. He finds open spaces disconcerting, and feels out of control amidst the chaos of nature, though he hates to admit it. It strikes him that, under different circumstances, this could be happening at the family home in St. John’s Wood instead. Most years, the family would be in London now, instead of languishing in the countryside, which would be infinitely preferable. Gregor drives him to the front door of the Holmes’ house and carries his bag inside for him before disappearing around the corner with the car.

It is dark inside; dark like it has never been before. There is no one to take his bag, so he carries it with him up two flights of stairs to his old bedroom. Not a single light appears to be on in the house, which seems odd. Given the number of people he knows are in residence at this time, he surely should have seen at least one person by now. He checks all of the usual places. His brother’s bedroom is a frenzied tangle of toys and books and dirty clothes and dishes nicked from the kitchen, but its occupant is missing. Mummy’s room is much neater (almost unlived in, by its appearance) but similarly abandoned, and the library is empty as well. At last, in the western-facing sitting room, he finds Mummy asleep on a sofa with a mangy-looking Scottish Fold on her lap. There is a tray of tea on the table next to her, but he finds it cold to the touch. He leans over her and gently shakes her awake, dislodging the cat and receiving a grumbled mewl of complaint.

“Oh, Mycroft, you’re home already,” she says sleepily, unfolding her legs from under her dressing gown and craning her neck to look up at him.

“It’s nearly 5:30, Mummy,” he says, leaning closer to wrap his arms in a hug around her thin frame.

“Is it that late?” she asks, looking around for the clock on the mantelpiece. “Goodness, it is. I meant to meet you at the door when you got home. I must have drifted off, though.”

“It’s fine, Mummy,” he reassures her, though he can smell a faint whiff of gin and tonic on her breath. “Where is everybody?”

She shrugs her shoulders nonchalantly. “Your father is where you would expect. Your grand-mère is probably in the stables. Your brother…” She gazes out of a bay window pointing west. “…is somewhere.”

“It’s becoming dark out, and it’s quite cold today,” Mycroft says in a would-be-casual manner. “Shouldn’t someone find him and bring him back in before dinner?”

“Perhaps,” Mummy says. “Dinner is at seven. I think. Your grand-mère will know.”

“What, where Sherlock is?” Mycroft asks.

“No, what time dinner is.”

Mycroft wants to yell, but that would be undignified. He settles for a stifled sigh, and squeezes Mummy’s hand, as if in reassurance. “Well, you’d better prepare for dinner within the hour, then. I’ll see if Grand-mère can help me find him.”

He straightens up to leave the room, but Mummy beckons him closer again. “Have you seen your father yet?”

“No,” he says, his throat tightening uncomfortably with the effort of the word.

“You should,” she says, exhaling an ethanol-scented breath. “You really should.”

“I will,” he promises. “Soon. After I find Sherlock.”

Mummy sinks back into the sofa, looking much more like an aging ingénue than a mother and a wife. Mycroft closes the door as quietly as he can when he leaves, and makes a detour to the kitchen to tell the cook to send Mummy some more tea before dinner. Then he slides out of his Oxfords and into a pair of knee-high Wellingtons and an overcoat and heads out across the garden. The sky, still cloudy, is beginning to turn from grey to dusky dark blue.

Grand-mère is in the stables, as predicted, aggressively currying the last horse owned by the Holmes family, an elderly bay gelding. She gives Mycroft a swift nod in greeting as he enters. He leans against a stall door and watches the older woman for a few seconds. They have never gotten along particularly well, perhaps because Mycroft glaringly takes after Father’s side of the family, but in the past couple of years he thinks they have come to a comfortable understanding based on their mutual worry about Sherlock.

“You are looking for your brother,” she says in her crisp English accent, with a barely audible trace of her childhood French patois lingering in the way she enunciates her vowels. She makes statements, but does not ask questions; it is simply not her style.

“Yes,” he says. “Mummy doesn’t know where he is.”

Grand-mère nods and resumes her currying. “He was playing in the woods this afternoon, by the old yew tree. I have not seen him go inside yet.”

Mycroft looks away and fiddles with a dusty bridle hanging on an empty stall, unsure of what to say next. He is not a horsey person; he has never been good at sport, and entirely gave up on riding at the age of six after being lofted from the back of a fat and supposedly docile Shetland pony. In contrast, Grand-mère is athletic, and as slender and tall as a spindle. Her cheekbones stand out in sharp contrast from her thin face, another corporal reminder that Mycroft does not take after her side of the family. Sherlock strongly resembles her, though. Perhaps that is why she loves him best; or perhaps it is because she knows that so few people do.

Mycroft clears his throat. “Has… has Sherlock been going to school?”

Grand-mère shrugs. “Sometimes. He already knows what they have to teach him, though. He is bored.”

Mycroft drops the bridle and looks up again. “He should go, though. He needs to make friends.”

Grand-mère shrugs. “He is a quiet boy. Even if he went, he wouldn’t make friends.”

“I’ve tried to have him admitted into Eton. I think he could skip a few years without any problems,” Mycroft admits. “I even talked to the Headmaster. But they have absolutely refused, until he turns thirteen. I’m thinking of contacting Harrow next. He cannot avoid going to school forever.”

Grand-mère looks up from the gelding and raises one eyebrow at Mycroft, but keeps her lips firmly pursed.

“How has Mummy been, these past couple of weeks? And Father?” he asks.

“Violette has been her usual self,” Grand-mère says, a faintly caustic tone to her voice. “Your father has been worse. As you well know.”

Mycroft looks away again, struggling to hold the older woman’s composed, verdigris gaze. “I should find Sherlock before dinner.”

“It is at seven-thirty,” Grand-mère says, throwing down the curry comb and reaching for another grooming implement in her tack box. “Try to make your brother eat something tonight. He won’t eat for me when he is in one of his moods.”

Back outside, nightfall has almost completely blanketed the grounds of the Holmes’ house. Mycroft wishes he had thought to bring a torch with him, but he knows exactly where he is going. It is a five minute walk from the house, through a darkened grove of trees dominated by an ancient yew; its scientific name floats immediately to his mind: _Taxus baccata_. Mycroft walks in a circle around its base, and then gives up, calling out, “Come on out, Sherlock. I know you are here somewhere.”

There is a slight rustle overhead; it could have been the wind, but there is no wind this evening.

“Are you in the branches?” Mycroft calls out, feigning impatience. “Mummy will be angry if she knows you’ve been climbing again.”

“Arr! Avast!” a small, high voice calls out from above. “En garde, l’Anglais!”

“Are you a French pirate now?” Mycroft asks, addressing a dark swathe of dead leaves that is moving far too vigorously. “I thought you were supposed to be Ned Low.”

“Maintenant, je suis Pierre Le Grand!”

Mycroft sighs. “You do know that Pierre Le Grand is likely a myth, right?”

A small wooden sword flies out of the tree in a fit of pique, and Mycroft ducks to avoid being hit. “That wasn’t very nice of you, Sherlock,” he says, trying his hardest to sound grown up and authoritative. “Aren’t you too old for this sort of behaviour? You just turned ten, didn’t you?”

“You weren’t here for my birthday,” the voice calls out.

“I haven’t been here for your birthday for years,” Mycroft testily replies. “I would have come, but I have school. I sent you a card, didn’t I? And a gift, which I see you are abusing.” He leans over and picks the wooden sword up from the shallow, grey snow. “Look, you’ve only had it for a week, and the handle is scratched already.”

He is met by resounding silence and stillness from the yew tree.

“And your room is a mess. Don’t think I didn’t see it already. Teacups and clothes everywhere.”

“It’s not a mess,” the voice calls back, clearly annoyed. “They’re experiments. I wanted to see how long it takes for mould to grow on a dirty teacup.”

Mycroft knows Sherlock can see him, but he smacks the tree with the sword in frustration anyways. “Just come down from the tree now. It’s almost time for dinner.”

“Not hungry,” the voice taunts.

“Just come down from the tree. Or… or, I really will tell Mummy you’ve been up there again. You know how she is when you anger her.”

There is a tense, guilty silence for a few more seconds, and then the little voice timidly says, “I don’t know if I can climb down. Can you catch me, ‘Croft?”

Mycroft huffs in exasperation, but throws the wooden sword down. “Fine. Where are you?”

“Hold out your arms, ‘Croft. I’m going to jump on the count of three. One… two… three…”

Mycroft barely has time to throw his arms out before a dark shape falls out of the tree and lands squarely on his chest. His brother is small and light, but he is badly out of shape and the shock of the weight knocks the breath out of him. He gasps in surprise and almost drops Sherlock, but manages to hold on at the last second. Sherlock grabs anxiously at his brother’s collar for a moment to steady himself, but then squirms to be let go. Mycroft sets him upright on the ground and smiles at his younger brother.

“I like the eye patch,” he says.

Sherlock tugs on it to straighten it. “I had a scarf, too, like a pirate bandana. But it was Grand-mère’s, and she said I couldn’t use it anymore.”

“Did you steal it from her room?” Mycroft asks, holding his hand out to his brother and beginning the short walk back to the house.

“I borrowed it,” Sherlock clarifies, slipping his gloved hand into his brother’s and moodily kicking at a clump of snow. “I was going to give it back.”

The house has more lights on now, and looks almost inhabited as they walk up to it. Inside, Mycroft helps Sherlock strip off his wet clothes and wash his hands, and then shepherds him into the dining room. There isn’t time to change into anything more appropriate for dinner, but formality and etiquette went to hell years ago at the Holmes’ house.

Mummy sits at the head of the table, glass of white wine in hand; she is glassy-eyed but otherwise remarkably composed this evening. Grand-mère conspicuously sits at the other end of the table, where Father should be. Sherlock and Mycroft settle themselves in somewhere in between. No one speaks for several minutes, as each member of the family ruminates over their day or stolidly contemplates their silverware.

“It’s good of you to join us tonight, Sherlock,” Mummy finally says with a softly acid edge to her words. Sherlock simply looks up and stares at her. Grand-mère clears her throat, as if she wants to say something, but then suppresses it. Mycroft continues to look at his plate, steeling himself to step in when it becomes necessary. It’s no wonder Sherlock never eats at dinner, he thinks. The tension in the room would throw anyone off of their feed. Mycroft is a notoriously enthusiastic eater, but tonight his stomach churns.

Not another word is spoken until the cook clears the soup and brings out the salmon.

“Sherlock, stop picking at your food,” Mummy snaps. “Eat it or don’t.”

Sherlock drops his fork with a clatter onto his plate and looks miserably at his lap. Mycroft knows he won’t eat another bite tonight.

“It’s a lot of food for someone his size to eat,” Mycroft tentatively ventures.

“It never stopped you,” Mummy points out, accentuating her words with a jab of her fork in Mycroft’s direction. “Or your father, for that matter.”

Mycroft’s lips form a tense, thin line of disapproval at the comment, but he holds his tongue. Grand-mère, to his surprise, speaks up for him. “They are different people, Violette. You cannot expect them all to behave the same,” she quietly rebukes.

Mummy’s lips curl, and she pushes her salmon away, too. When the cook carries the next dish in, she asks for more wine.

The next confrontation occurs over the dessert course. Mycroft is eagerly making his way through a poached pear and a serving of chocolate mousse when Mummy speaks again.

“Dr. Lawrence came by this morning.”

Grand-mère intervenes almost immediately, giving Sherlock a sidelong look as he pushes his pear from one side of his plate to the other with a spoon. “I don’t think this is the right time for this.”

“When is the right time, then, Maman? Tomorrow? Two weeks from now? Three weeks? Tomorrow might be too late already.” Her voice is rising in emotion as she speaks.

“Don’t be melodramatic, Mummy,” Mycroft says in what he hopes is a soothing voice, at risk of bringing her hysteria down on his own head. “We all know what is coming, and soon. Talking about it won’t change a thing.”

“Stiff upper lip. Is that what you are learning at Eton?” Mummy asks. “What a waste of money. If your father hadn’t gone there, I never would have consented to send you. I don’t see why we should send Sherlock either, but your father insisted, and God knows he is always right, and always has his way…”

“I was thinking maybe Harrow would suit him better,” Mycroft says. “I was going to write to their headmaster and see if they would take him earlier. Would you like that, Sherlock?”

Sherlock looks up for perhaps the second or third time that dinner, and makes eye contact with Mycroft. “Yes.”

Mummy immediately bursts into tears and flings her wineglass down on the table, leaving a bloody red stain on the lace cloth. “How dare you! Everyone is always so eager to leave me! My dead father, my darling boys, my useless husband abandoning us and then finally coming back and…” She chokes on the last words.

Mycroft watches her in astonishment. He is never certain what will set her off; it seems to change from day to day. “It’s not like that at all, Mummy! Sherlock needs to go to school. He’s terribly bored at the primary school you have him in now, aren’t you?”

Sherlock nods fervently, but doesn’t feel the need to contribute anything further to the conversation at this time.

“Go,” Mummy gasps. “Just go. Go to bed, or back to school, or wherever on earth that pleases you. Just leave. Get out of my sight.”

Mycroft turns to Grand-mère for support, but she shrugs in resignation and moves to finish off her pear. “Say goodnight to your father, and put your brother to bed. Perhaps fetch him something else to eat from the kitchen if he wants it,” she suggests in a low undertone beneath the sound of Mummy crying.

Mycroft rises from the table, leaving his dessert half-eaten for the first time in years, and gestures for Sherlock to follow him.

“Do you want to say goodnight to Father?” he asks his younger brother. Sherlock shakes his head, and Mycroft can hardly blame him. It only occurred to him recently that in the ten years of his brother’s life, their father has been mostly absent or ill. Mycroft can remember several good years as a small child with his father before his parents’ marriage began to flounder, and then disease quietly pervaded all of their lives. In some ways, Mycroft understands the disintegration of the marriage: his father was so business-like, and filled with all-consuming passion for the laws of the country he loved. And his mother is like an emotional indigent: she never seemed to have enough love, and when Father gave up on her, she had sought for it elsewhere. Which ended poorly, Mycroft recalls, when Sherlock’s insatiable curiosity had uncovered things that both Mummy and Father were more comfortable pretending to ignore. He shakes off his reverie and turns his attention back to his younger brother, who is gamely clutching onto his hand and pumping it up and down, as if in time to music only he can hear.

“And do you want anything else to eat?” Mycroft asks, remembering how little Sherlock ate at dinner: a piece of bread and a little beef broth during the soup course. Sherlock shakes his head no again. “You have to eat sometime,” Mycroft tells him. “It’s unhealthy. You won’t grow.”

“I’m too young for puberty,” Sherlock informs him matter-of-factly. “I’m receiving adequate nutrients for my dietary needs at this time.”

A corner of Mycroft’s mouth quirks in a humourless smile. “You’re too young to be talking about puberty. Bed. Now.”

Sherlock changes into his pyjamas reluctantly. “‘Croft, I’m not tired,” he insists, a faintly childish whine creeping into his voice.

“Fine. Don’t sleep. You’ll just be tired tomorrow,” Mycroft sighs. “Do you want me to read you a story before I leave?”

Sherlock gives him a look that could sour milk. “I can read my own stories.”

Mycroft shrugs. “You still wanted me to read stories to you last summer.”

“That was last summer,” Sherlock says with a pout.

“I’m turning off the lights now,” Mycroft warns his brother.

“I’m not ready for sleep!” Sherlock grouses.

Mycroft flicks the light switch anyways and closes the door. He knows that as soon as his footsteps have descended far enough down the stairs, Sherlock will have the lights back on and will be busily examining his teacups for signs of mould, or paging through the Encyclopaedia Britannica for information on migratory bird species, or whatever it is he does when left to his own devices, which he so frequently is.

The dining room is peaceful again as Mycroft walks past it. Grand-mère has probably settled into the library for the remainder of the night, and Mummy is… possibly asleep. No, hopefully asleep. Mycroft pads softly down a corridor at the back of the house, and knocks gently on a closed door before opening it.

It was a sitting room at one point, but was converted about a year ago to a sickroom when the inevitable became unavoidable. The bed at the centre of the room contains one solitary, skeletal figure, mercifully lying still and serene tonight. A chair in the corner contains another solitary figure, this time of a tidy young woman in a neat nurse’s uniform. She stands to greet Mycroft.

“Hello again, Mycroft. I heard you were coming back today, but I thought maybe you already came in for a visit before my shift started.”

‘Hello, Jenny,” Mycroft greets her, offering her a handshake. “No, this is the first I’ve been able to visit. I had to hunt down Sherlock from where he was hiding when I got home, and then sit through a dinner that will undoubtedly rest at the top of a long list of worst dinners of my life.”

Jenny laughs at this, which makes Mycroft flush a little under the collar. She is about eight years older than him, but very pretty nevertheless. He finds himself flustered around her at times, and self-conscious. Mycroft is a confident person, or so he likes to tell himself, and any insecurity is deeply unwelcome. If he were fitter, he thinks to himself, or more handsome....

“Dr. Lawrence was here this morning,” Jenny says softly.

“I heard,” Mycroft says. “Well, I heard he came. I don’t know what he said.”

Jenny shrugs and sinks back into her chair next to the bed. “Pretty much what you’d expect. He has days, if not hours. All of this,” she gesticulates to the medical equipment packed into the little room, “is just for show now.”

Mycroft sits on the edge of the bed and reaches out for his father’s lukewarm hand. “I know. I mean, no one said anything. We are Holmeses, after all. We don’t talk about things like this in our family. But, I knew when I got the call this morning at school, to come home, that this would be it.”

Jenny pats his knee. “It will be alright. He won’t suffer anymore.”

“I don’t think he’s suffering now,” Mycroft admits. “I think he is far beyond that. He hasn’t really been lucid since Christmas, has he?”

“No,” Jenny says. She doesn’t say it like she is sad or regretful; Mycroft admires her for that trait. When Jenny speaks, it is always with a purpose, and her intent is always clear. She is here to provide compassion as needed, and to inform. She is not here to grieve.

“Can I have a few minutes with him?” Mycroft asks. “I know he can’t hear me. But, I’d just like to say a few things.”

Jenny nods. “Sure. Absolutely. I’ll fetch some tea from the kitchen. Would you like a cup?”

“Yes,” Mycroft says. He watches Jenny slip out the door, shutting it behind her, and then he rises from the bed and sinks into her chair.

“Father,” he begins awkwardly, watching his father’s nearly concave chest struggle for each breath with a quiet hiss. The last ravages of lung cancer, Mycroft notes. He will never forget what this looks like. He must protect himself and Sherlock from all of the poisons – chemical and otherwise – that have ruined their father. He makes the promise to himself guiltily, though, knowing that there is a half-smoked pack of Gauloises Bleues upstairs in his bag.

He begins again. “Father. The last time we talked – the last time you talked to me, rather, you said I needed to take over for you. To step into your shoes. And I am trying. I promise you I am.” He pinches the bridge of his nose as he fishes for words. “I don’t think I am doing a very good job of it, though. I’m away at school most of the time. And that’s not an excuse, even though it sounds like one. It’s just a fact. I will be finishing a year early, though, which I hope would make you proud. And then going to Oxford, and just generally trying to fill your place again. I do want to be like you, I think.

“Not that you were perfect, Father. I loved you – love you. I admire you, even if you sacrificed Mummy for your career, and neglected Sherlock. And me. But, England needs more men like you to become great again. More thinkers, more doers. And I intend to be one of those men. But, God help me if I abandon Sherlock.

“He’s so smart, Father. Just like us. Maybe smarter, I don’t really know yet. Maybe smarter in a different way – I think he might take after Mummy’s family a bit, more science and music, less politics and philosophy. But I just don’t know what to do with him. He’s useless at school, he’s finicky, he’s untidy, and he drives Mummy mad, and then she starts drinking, and you know what that is like. He wanders off alone into the woods when we are in the country, and into the streets of London when we are in St. John’s Wood. And he’s my responsibility now, isn’t he? And I really don’t know what to do with him. If I could watch him twenty-four hours a day to keep him out of trouble, God knows I would. But, I cannot.”

Jenny knocks softly on the door, and Mycroft runs his hand through his hair in exasperation before standing to help her with the tea. Jenny sets the tray down on a table next to the bed, and then looks at her patient. “Oh. Oh, Mycroft.”

Mycroft looks back at his father. He doesn’t know how to explain it, but there is a change in the man’s countenance. Somehow, without Mycroft’s notice in the midst of his speech, his father has slipped unobtrusively away into death. The last feeble gasps for air are silenced. Mycroft reaches for his father’s hand, and finding it slowly cooling to room temperature, he drops it carelessly back on the bed.

Jenny gives Mycroft’s shoulder a little squeeze, and then busies herself with the last acts of death: turning off the machines and calling Dr. Lawrence. Mycroft looks at the clock. 10:07 p.m. He can’t find it in himself to cry. Instead, he takes one shaky breath, and then says to Jenny, “I have to go tell my mum. And maybe Sherlock. And Grand-mère.”

Jenny nods. “Dr. Lawrence will be here in about fifteen minutes. He’ll call an official time of death, and then you’ll have to contact the undertaker.”

The corridors of the house feel too narrow as he navigates his way to the library first. Grand-mère is sprawled on a chaise longue with an old copy of a Hardy novel. He feels like he is interrupting her when he clears his throat to announce his presence. He doesn’t believe in the use of metaphor for the unpleasant things in life, so he simply announces, “Father is dead.”

Grand-mère surveys him up and down, and then says, “Thank you for telling me, dear. Have you told Violette yet?”

“No,” he says, shoulders sagging. “Not yet.”

“Best to get it over with,” she suggests, standing up and stretching. “And tell Sherlock, too. He will resent you in the future if you are not honest with him now.”

“I know,” he mumbles.

“I will go wait for Dr. Lawrence,” she says, wrapping Mycroft in a thin embrace. He cannot remember the last time she hugged him; he’s not sure he likes the sensation of her bony arms around him, so he stands stiff until the moment ends. “Go tell Violette now. She is in her bedroom.”

Climbing the stairs to Mummy’s bedroom seems to take twice as long as it should. When he goes to knock on her doorway, she opens it under his fist. It only takes her one look at her son to know.

“He’s died, hasn’t he?” she asks, much more calmly than he had anticipated. Perhaps the alcohol helps after all, as a sedative, he cynically thinks.

“Grand-mère is waiting downstairs for Dr. Lawrence,” he says. “Do you want to wait with her, or come tell Sherlock with me?”

Mummy’s eyes open wide, as if in fear. “No, I will go wait. Thank you, Mycroft. You are doing so admirably, my darling. So admirably.” She pauses for a moment, then reaches out and pats his cheek. “I do love him, you know. Your brother. I love him very much. It’s a difficult kind of love, though.” And then she is gone. Mycroft watches her drift down the hall to the stairway. She seems insubstantial somehow, like she is not quite all there. He wonders how he never noticed it before now. And yet, he loves her anyways. Maybe even more now.

Sherlock is the last person to tell. As he predicted, the light is on in his younger brother’s room. He taps on the door, more to give warning than anything else, and then pushes it open.

The room is empty. The lights are on, the bedclothes are in disarray, and the teacups have been rearranged into some new order, but the room is empty. Mycroft double checks under the bed and in the closet to be sure, and a few more unusual places to be triply sure. The room is indubitably empty, however. Mycroft sinks onto his brother’s bed, somehow feeling defeated. This was his duty. And now he is denied the chance to see it to its fruition. Everything he does for Sherlock – everything he has ever done to make sure the boy is happy, or at least moderately content – is utterly undermined by everything Sherlock does in return. He wonders if Sherlock does it on purpose; this thought is enough to finally bring him to tears.

Sherlock chooses this moment to reappear, holding a garden trowel in one hand and what appears to be a Kilner jar full of dirt in the other.

“What’s wrong?” he asks curiously.

“Where were you?” Mycroft defensively replies, rubbing his thumbs furiously into his eyes and trying to pretend he wasn’t in the midst of a breakdown.

“I needed soil for an experiment,” Sherlock says. “What’s wrong?”

Mycroft takes a breath, shaking his head in what would be anger if it wasn’t relief. “Father is dead.”

Sherlock sets his jar of dirt and trowel down on the floor with great deliberateness. He wipes his hands on his pyjama trousers, contemplates his fingernails, scuffs his toes at a spot on the rug. At last, he says, “Yes.” 

“Yes?” Mycroft says. “Just, yes?”

Sherlock nods. His face is unreadable, and Mycroft cannot help but wonder how he manages it. Or if there is something wrong with him that they’ve all been denying these past ten years. “Yes. Ok. I understand. ‘Croft, I think I’m ready for bed now.”

“Don’t you want to be with Mummy right now, and Grand-mère? And maybe say good-bye to Father?”

Sherlock cocks his head and looks at Mycroft with curious intensity. “Isn’t that what the funeral is supposed to be for?”

Mycroft stands up, trying to shake away waves of despondency with action. “Come on. I’ll tuck you into bed.”

Sherlock scrambles in between the sheets, and gazes passively up at his older brother as Mycroft tucks the sheets around him. “Are you mad at me, ‘Croft?”

“No,” Mycroft says dully.

“Will you read me a story now?”

“It’s not really a good time, Sherlock. I have to go back downstairs now.” He tousles Sherlock’s dark and wavy hair, notes purple splotches of exhaustion under his brother’s eyes, and flicks the lights off again. “If you pick out a story, maybe I’ll have time to read it to you tomorrow.”

Sherlock nods. “I want you to read ‘Emil and the Detectives’ to me. Tomorrow. Promise me.”

“I read that to you last year. You already know how it will end,” Mycroft says, but relents anyways under Sherlock’s unwavering gaze. “I suppose, if you want me to, I’ll read it again. I promise. Now go to sleep.” As he leaves the room, he hears Sherlock give a sad little sigh as he burrows into his bed. Mycroft is relieved to hear it; there is some feeling there, under Sherlock’s facade, but it is buried deep. And becoming deeper all the time, Mycroft thinks sourly. But perhaps it is for the best, seeing as Mummy cares an awful lot, and it has done nothing favourable for her in the long run.

Slowly, deliberately descending the stairs, he can hear the low rumble of Dr. Lawrence’s voice, and the higher chorus composed of Mummy, Grand-mère, and Jenny. They are standing in the front hall, apparently having abandoned Father and the sickroom for the time being to discuss funeral plans. Mycroft stops halfway down the last flight, suddenly unsure if he belongs with the adults, or tucked into bed upstairs like Sherlock. Then, squaring his shoulders, he takes another step and continues the descent.

**Author's Note:**

> This is still somewhat of a work in progress, but I wanted to get it out there to see if anyone had any comments or suggestions, since I'm currently working without a beta. It's part of a larger series about the Holmes family (mostly focused on Mycroft and Mummy), which is not yet complete and is taking an unbelievable amount of time to finish. As such, minor plot points in this story are potentially liable to change as the larger work is finished.


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